A Lesson in Breathing
by bluedana
Summary: An assassination attempt leaves Archer clinging to life, and T'Pol not completely confident that she can succeed him as captain. AU, because in my world, TATV never happened. Updated only to make minor edits.


A/N: I wanted to see if I could kill off Archer. Did I succeed? Read on. Hey, it can't be worse than the B&B Boys, right? 

Disclaimer: ST:Ent and its characters belong to Paramount. More's the pity.

A Lesson in Breathing

Captain Jonathan Archer was not good at diplomacy. He didn't enjoy negotiating treaties, and he certainly didn't like sitting in a conference room, listening, while a treaty that didn't even involve Earth or humans was debated by two equally obnoxious alien species. Enterprise had been sent by Starfleet to serve as neutral ground between the Ze and the Onwar, inhabitants of two worlds which had been at war for fifty years. After a pleasant first contact with each of the planets individually, Admiral Gardner decided it would be a good idea to allow treaty negotiations to take place on Enterprise. Admiral Forrest would have known better.

So here Archer sat, monitoring the negotiations, his sole purpose to make sure that hostilities did not break out between the two sets of Ambassadors who detested each other at the cellular level. Discussions had started out six hours ago with trade topics: transport routes, import and export quotas for products Archer didn't recognize or care about. The mind-numbing tedium threatened his sanity. He hoped it didn't show on his face, but he feared he was not that great an actor.

He had tried to assign Commander T'Pol to this babysitting duty. Even if she had no interest in the topic, she could at least control her expression. Everyone _expected_ Vulcans to look bored. Besides, if he knew his Science Officer, and he did, she would have sat here paying attention with one third of her brain and performing six different astrometric calculations with the other two thirds. But she had pointed out, accurately, that both the Ze and the Onwar would have been highly offended if they were attended by anything less than the highest ranking officer on board.

He checked his notes. Ah, they had left trade and were onto proposed reparations by the Onwar to the Ze for the loss of ships and civilians due to Onwarian piracy. He couldn't imagine that the Onwarians were going to agree to pay anything. They didn't seem the remorseful type.

He let his mind wander, not too far, lest he lose consciousness completely. He wished he had thought of bringing something unobtrusive to do; at this point, he'd even settle for a crossword puzzle. He looked over at Hoshi Sato, who was intent on the debate. Part of her job as Communications Officer was to ensure that the interpreters for each side translated the comments accurately. Any miscommunication, accidental or intentional, could lead to all out war. She had one ear on the live conversation, and one ear plus an eye on the Universal Translator. She was in her element. Archer smiled, watching her. Which was why he noticed her stiffen, as if someone had poked her with a pin. The voices across the table had begun to rise. Fumbling for his own UT, he turned up the volume.

He was just in time to hear the Onwarian First Ambassador call the Zean First Ambassador a son of a – oh, dear, he didn't know exactly what that animal was, but it couldn't have been nice. The Zean Ambassador answered in kind, and they were off to the races. Seven beings went for each other across the table, with two small humans trying to avert a free-for-all. At Archer's shout, the security team (excluded from the room because of the confidential nature of the discussion) rushed in to separate the combatants.

Ten minutes, and many vicious insults later, Archer suggested that the parties take a break. "We have refreshments for you in the Mess . . ."

"We would rather return to our own ship," snapped the Zean Ambassador's aide, eyeing the Onwarian contingent with contempt.

"Perhaps they should go back to their neutral corners," Hoshi commented. Archer nodded. As long as they were off his ship for a few hours, he didn't care if they went to opposite corners of the galaxy. He summoned T'Pol and Lieutenant Malcolm Reed to meet them at Docking Port One to hand the Onwarian Ambassador over to her ship. The Zean Ambassador waited in the conference room for them to return and escort him and his contingent to Docking Port Two.

It was a relieved little group of humans (and one Vulcan) who waited for the Onwarian ship to dock, eyes on the green go light. There was little chatter. T'Pol could tell that the session had not gone precisely well, and Reed eyed the Ambassador's contingent with his usual distrust.

The airlock slid open, and the Ambassador's aides stepped through. The Ambassador lingered and held out her hand, in the human manner, to take her leave of the captain. He gripped it gently, and was about to murmur something politically correct, when a flash of motion at the doorway caught his eye. His gaze focused on the gun, the only thing in the universe he could identify.

Reed went for the assailant, shoving T'Pol aside roughly. Archer hip-checked the Ambassador out of the way. By the time Reed took down the assassin, three shots had been fired. He heard three loud pops, like the sound ping-pong balls make when they bounce off the table. Later, when the rest of the scene sorted itself out in his mind, he would remember the other sounds, the "Uh, uh, uh," in quick succession, Archer's voice as the bullets caught him full in the chest, and then the heavy thud as his body hit the deck.

T'Pol's powder blue suit was soaked in red human blood, from shoulder to knee. The metallic smell hung in her nostrils. She and Reed had carried the captain to Sickbay, moving swiftly through the corridors, past shocked crewmembers. Almost before they had crossed the threshold, Phlox had whisked the patient away, behind the sterile curtain. T'Pol had followed quickly, the only one in the room in any frame of mind to assist the doctor. The two of them had wasted no time slicing the captain's uniform apart: the blue jumpsuit, the black buttoned shirt, the electric blue tee-shirt, each layer of clothing already ripped by the bullets.

The entrance wounds were obscured by blood. T'Pol hadn't known that a human could lose so much of the vital fluid and live; at least a liter had already puddled on the floor, and more bubbled out with every sluggish beat of Archer's heart.

Now, as the doctor and the med-techs hastily called to duty fought to stabilize the captain, T'Pol moved woodenly to the comm. "T'Pol to Commander Tucker."

An impatient Southern drawl answered. "Yeah, Tucker."

"Would you please come to Sickbay right away?" The First Officer's voice betrayed nothing.

There was a sigh; the engineer was clearly in the middle of something. "Look, can it wait? I've got bits and pieces of engine scattered all over the place here." Something metallic clattered to the floor, and Trip turned his head away from the comm to yell at somebody.

T'Pol said, "The captain has been seriously injured. Come now, please."

Trip didn't even bother to close the comm link. He bolted.

Within three minutes, he was bursting through the door, eyes and hair wild, the sleeves of his uniform still casually tied around his waist. "What happened?" he demanded. "There's a trail of blood from . . ." He got a look at the Vulcan's face and body and stopped abruptly. This was no slip-and-fall. He took a breath and asked in a deceptively even tone, "Where's the captain?"

"Phlox is with him," T'Pol said, and the slight tremble in her voice sent a wave of panic through the engineer. "He was shot." She described, succinctly, dispassionately, the incident at the airlock. "Lieutenant Reed has taken the assailant into custody. The Ambassadors have been placed in secure quarters."

"Are you hurt? You're covered in blood." Trip put his hands on her shoulders, as if to steady her, and himself.

"It is not my blood. Vulcan blood is green." Her eyes drifted to the sterile screen. Archer would be undergoing surgery by now. "I must sit." There was only one chair, at Phlox's desk, and neither T'Pol nor Trip wanted to sit on a bio bed. So T'Pol perched on the chair and Trip sank to the floor next to her, each straining to hear what was going on inside the surgery suite.

Hoshi inched forward on her knees, her hands gripping the big yellow sponge and a bucket. From the airlock door to the turbo lift, there was a thick line of drying blood, marking the frantic path of rescue. She leaned over and scrubbed in a tight circle. The First Officer and the Tactical Officer had carried the captain away, running as if his lanky frame weighed nothing, not wanting to wait for Sickbay to send a gurney. The two security officers assigned to escort the Ambassador had bundled her and her staff away, once the assassin – no, _would-be_ assassin, since she refused to believe that Archer was dead – had been immobilized. The MACOs had responded to Reed's call, and had dragged the Zean to the brig.

Which left Hoshi, the linguist, standing in stunned silence in the middle of the corridor. Nobody needed her skills now. She didn't know how long she had simply stood there, UT in hand, trying to make sense of what had happened. She shook her head, and that's when she'd noticed the blood. Thinking of something she could do, she ducked into the nearest maintenance room and retrieved the bucket, sponge, and antiseptic cleaner. She suspected, clued in by the overpowering smell, that the cleaner was meant to be diluted, but she couldn't remember where the nearest source of water was. Full strength would have to do.

That was how Travis Mayweather, off-duty, found her, half an hour later, still inching her way up the hall, fingers cracking from the chemical, tears streaming down her face. "Hoshi," Travis said gently, "let Maintenance handle this."

"It's the captain's blood," she said, looking him straight in the eye, as if that explained everything.

It was two hours before Phlox emerged from the surgical suite to find T'Pol and Trip still sitting, still waiting. They rose when they saw him. He had changed out of his bloody scrubs. His face was grim. A silence hung. T'Pol knew he would report all pertinent data, so she simply waited. Trip was afraid to ask.

"The captain is stable, for the moment," Phlox said, his voice, like those of all emergency room doctors everywhere, flat and unexpressive. He looked at Trip, directing his comments to the engineer, since T'Pol already knew most of what he was about to say. "He was hit three times by a projectile weapon, not a phase pistol. The bullets, I guess you might call them, missed his heart, but did significant internal damage. I was able to reinflate his left lung." He called up the bio-data on his desk monitor. The outline of Archer's body spun slowly on the screen, with graphics demonstrating the inner disaster in 3-D. Trip was no doctor, but he knew the data scrolling up the right side of the screen was not good.

"The assailant is in custody, and Mr. Reed is in possession of the weapon," T'Pol told the doctor. " Would it help you to have it for analysis?"

"Unfortunately, I already know all I need to about that," Phlox answered, looking dour. "The bullets themselves are laced with a chemical that is toxic to the human body. Actually, it's toxic for Vulcans, Denobulans, Onwarians, and Zeans as well. The twenty-second century version of the poison-tipped dart, I suppose." Disgust and outrage seeped into his words. "To my knowledge, such weapons are outlawed on every civilized world."

Trip was a get-to-the-point type of person. "Will the captain live?"

Phlox answered obliquely. "The toxin is slow acting, and deadly. It overwhelms the body and shuts it down. Now, the human body is a lovely machine, and there are systems that are specifically geared to flush poisons from it. If the captain remains stable until the toxin leaves his system, he has a chance."

That was not the ringing endorsement Trip wanted, so he tried a different tack. "How long does this toxin last?"

The doctor considered. "One to two days."

"And what are the chances the captain can fight it out for two days?"

"Not good. Somewhat less than fifty percent, if I can keep his lungs from collapsing." Phlox raised a hand as Trip closed his eyes. "But the captain is a strong man, physically fit, and otherwise healthy. All of those factors will work in his favor."

"I need to see him," Trip said quietly. Phlox nodded. Without thinking, Trip grabbed T'Pol's hand as they approached the curtain. She did not pull away.

The doctor paused before pulling back the screen. "One more thing." He lowered his voice. "The captain is in considerable pain. I have moderately sedated him, so he may be able to talk to you. But," again he raised a hand in caution, "he is in no condition to make command decisions." He locked eyes with the First Officer.

Archer's second-in-command nodded. "Understood."

She had rarely seen Archer so still, or so pale. The man usually was a force in motion, striding with long legs down the corridors of his ship, pacing the Ready Room while remembering with each pass to duck underneath the low ceiling rib, even drumming his fingers on the armrest of his command chair when he was required to sit and wait. She had often wished him motionless, less distracting; now, she regretted each and every time she had thought uncharitably about his need to move.

Phlox had resorted to a good old-fashioned IV, both B negative blood and plasma coursing back into a body that had lost nearly half of its blood volume. The hanging tubes looked odd amidst the high-tech machinery.

Beside her, Trip let go of her hand and reached out to touch the captain. After a hesitation, he laid it lightly on Archer's bare shoulder, not wanting to wake him. Archer's eyes floated open, a dull green. Beneath the clear oxygen mask, his mouth quirked up at the side, barely. "Everyone okay?" To Trip, it was inaudible, but T'Pol's sensitive hearing picked it up.

"Yes. The Ambassadors are in secure quarters. The gunman is in the brig. Lieutenant Reed has the situation under control."

"'Course," Archer whispered.

"You take it easy, Cap'n," Trip said, injecting a note of confidence into his voice. "You're gonna be fine. T'Pol and I will get to the bottom of this whole thing. You just rest."

Archer closed his eyes and drifted off.

_Trip truly doesn't have a poker face, which makes him an even worse player than me, if that's even possible. I suppose it's nice to know your two closest friends won't lie to you, T'Pol because Vulcans don't, and Trip because, well, he's just so transparent. Of course, the downside is, all his assurances mean I'm probably going to die. I wish someone would get this elephant off my ribs. There's a cold sheet and a sticky bandage on my chest. I wonder why that's there; probably someplace for the elephant to sit. It's not a good sign at all that I have no clothes on, just this sheet. And, damn, we can travel at Warp Five, but nobody's come up with a better idea than the Foley catheter? So much for the captain's dignity. Ah, here's Phlox, hypospray and all. Drugs sound pretty good right now. Hope you brought enough for Dumbo . . ._

Lieutenant Reed was wound very, very tightly. For a slightly built man, he could certainly fill up a room when he was angry. And right now, he was livid. T'Pol could feel the waves of fury radiating off of his person as he gave her the results of his short but productive investigation. It had taken only twelve hours to get the full story. For the first time, Reed completely understood how a person might be driven to airlock a prisoner.

"So, it's nothing more complicated than an attempt to assassinate a member of the Onwarian delegation to derail the treaty talks." Reed's British accent, which had mellowed over his years on Enterprise, was sharp enough to slice through metal. "Certain Zean factions stood to lose significant black market business if there were finally peace and regulated trade. The Zean assassin stowed away onboard the Onwarian ship and took the first chance he got."

"Both the Onwarian and Zean governments have requested extradition of the prisoner," T'Pol said. She clasped her hands behind her back, not quite comfortable enough to sit at the captain's desk in the Ready Room. She had showered and changed out of her bloody clothes before reporting to the Bridge. Her first duty as Acting Captain was to decide what was to be done with the gunman.

"Be Solomon," Trip said flatly. "Tie one arm to each ship and let them go to warp in opposite directions."

"I do not believe that is an appropriate response," T'Pol answered mildly.

"Works for me," Trip snarled.

"The crime occurred on Starfleet property, under Starfleet jurisdiction." T'Pol made up her mind, choosing the most logical option. "He will receive a fair trial on Earth."

"Neither side's going to be happy with that solution," Reed observed.

"That is not my concern," T'Pol answered, moving to the comm. "T'Pol to Communications." Not surprisingly, Hoshi had not come back on duty, so her replacement answered. "Please contact Admiral Gardner at Starfleet Command. Secure channel. Route it in here." She thought of all the times Archer had had to call Starfleet headquarters with bad news. She could picture him striding across the Bridge toward this office. _This is not gonna be fun_. Indeed.

Sometimes T'Pol wondered why Starfleet had ever elevated Gardner to replace Admiral Forrest. Dealing with Gardner was like dealing with a child. The man could not make a decision, ever. She had thought the hardest part would be informing him that his good friend Jonathan Archer had been seriously, maybe mortally, wounded, but that news had not been the source of the drama. Rather, the Admiral had "hemmed and hawed," Trip's phrase for it, dithering about the conflicting demands of the Onwarian and Zean governments. She had thought that part to be quite clear, but was obliged to await orders. No, when Gardner had finally gotten around to asking, "How is Jon doing?" fifteen minutes into the call, T'Pol was experiencing that human emotion, irritation, so profoundly, that she all but snapped, "It is not certain whether he will live."

Gardner thought about that for approximately half a second, then went back to worrying the Onwar/Ze bone. After a while, T'Pol interrupted with, "Admiral, I must go. There are urgent matters to attend."

"Fine, Commander," said the Admiral. "Keep me posted. Gardner out." T'Pol stared at the screen, remembering Archer's story about the original four candidates for command of Enterprise. She counted herself lucky that Starfleet hadn't made a different choice.

While she waited for Gardner to come to the very obvious conclusion, she headed back to Sickbay for a status update. There, behind the screen, she found Trip sitting by the captain's bedside holding a padd. She checked the chronometer; it was oh-eight hundred hours, near the beginning of Alpha shift. She was surprised. It had been almost eighteen hours since the assassination attempt. She had been so busy, she had neither eaten nor slept nor meditated. No wonder Gardner had irritated her so.

She approached the bed quietly. Archer was inclined slightly, and the oxygen mask had been replaced, probably at his own stubborn insistence, by a nasal cannula. She could hear his labored breathing.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" T'Pol asked him, spearing Trip with a you-at-least-should-know-better glance. Archer just fluttered a hand a centimeter off the bed, as if to say, _Whatever_.

She noticed that his fingernails and his lips were blue. A surreptitious peek at the monitor confirmed that his oxygen saturation level was dangerously low.

"Malcolm's report," Trip said, waving the padd. He went back to reading it aloud. The lieutenant had covered every possible detail. Archer closed his eyes as he listened, looking pained.

"That is quite thorough and accurate," T'Pol commented when Trip had finished. "Mr. Reed should be commended on his investigation."

"Heard back from Gardner yet? What does he say we're supposed to do with the, uh," Trip cast around for the least upsetting term, "prisoner?"

Archer dragged enough breath into his lungs to say, "Earth."

T'Pol studied him with faint amusement. "You know that, and I know that. It appears Admiral Gardner will require several more hours to figure it out."

Another pained look from Archer, then he muttered, "Idiot."

Phlox came through the curtain, a strange looking plastic device in his hand. "Captain, you're not getting enough oxygen," he said briskly. "It's time for the respirator."

"Mm-mm," Archer answered, pressing his lips together.

"Captain," Phlox coaxed firmly, sounding like a father of five.

Archer turned his head away. In reality, there was nothing he could do to stop the doctor from intubating him, but if he made it clear enough, perhaps Phlox's Denobulan ethics would prevent him from forcing the issue. He looked up at T'Pol for back up, an unlikely source, but, hey, any port in a storm. "Never come off," he managed.

"Doc," Trip said, "just – just give him a little more time, okay?"

Denobulan ethics and human pleading overcame the doctor's better medical judgment. "Very well," he said, and disappeared back into the main room.

"You are a terrible patient," T'Pol told the captain, in the voice she reserved for her conversations with Porthos.

Archer grinned.

_You're your father's son, Jon. He never wanted to be on one of those machines, either, not even at the very end. They always say it's just for a while, but nobody ever comes off a respirator. I remember looking into Dad's eyes as that machine forced him to breathe. All those things he wanted to say, just trapped there behind his eyes. I may not be the best speaker in the galaxy, but there are still things I gotta say to my crew. Before I go. _

He awoke to a dim room and a warm, wet sensation on his face. He knew that kiss. He opened his eyes to find his beagle staring balefully at him. Hoshi held him, squirming in her arms, just next to his master's cheek. The dog licked his jaw, his forehead, his eyelids, whining softly. "Hey," Archer said on an exhalation, smiling.

"He's been asking for you, sir," Hoshi explained sheepishly. "I speak beagle pretty fluently now, and he told me he wanted to see you. He misses you." She valiantly fought to keep her face composed. "I brought you something else, too, sir." Placing the dog gently on the floor, she rolled a small portable table, one that the doctor used to hold his trays of instruments, over to the bed. There was a computer monitor on it. She flipped a switch, and the screen was filled with stars. To an eye less practiced than his, there seemed to be no movement, but he knew better. "It's the view from your Ready Room window," she said. "It was Travis' idea."

He reached up with his free hand and squeezed hers.

Thirty-six hours after the assassination attempt, Phlox paged T'Pol to Sickbay. Trip was already there, had been for the past six hours. Even crossing the room, T'Pol could hear Archer's breathing, an arrhythmic gasp, pause, gasp that told of tremendous effort. Trip's low voice, becoming hoarse now, droned on, at the moment reminiscing about diving in the Keys. She parted the curtain and steeled her expression.

Archer acknowledged her with his eyes. There was a blue cast to his skin; he was suffocating. Trip was on the edge, the knowledge of the captain's chances written all over his face.

_Did I ever apologize to you for threatening to knock you on your ass? I don't think so. Maybe you figured it out; you're a pretty smart lady. And beautiful. I'm _certain_ I never told you that – I may be dumb as a box of rocks, but I do have a little pride. Trip's gonna need you, your logical approach and cool composure. He's almost falling apart now, and I'm not even gone yet. He's told me that same diving story three times now. You'll make a good captain; I know you don't think so. I hope you don't decide you've had enough of these humans. And, Trip, you've come so far. I've never had any hesitation leaving Enterprise in your hands. Now I'm ready to give you her crew, too. Yeah, you're impulsive; you've gotten better, though. And T'Pol needs a dose of good old fashioned, human gut feeling sometimes. _

Phlox poked his head through the curtains. "May I see you for a moment, Commanders?"

_Uh-oh. Not a good sign, when they don't want to talk in front of the patient._

The doctor went straight to the point. He touched the computer screen to call up the bio-signs. "This is the pain receptor monitor. As you can see, it's very high, and I have the captain at the maximum dose of pain relief." The little sideways arrow hovered uncertainly at the top of the scale. "I have to put him under."

"Are you saying – " Trip tried to find his voice again, "is Jon going to make it?"

"No," said Phlox. Trip sat down. The doctor turned to T'Pol. "I trust you have made preparations to assume command?"

T'Pol gathered her training and discipline around her like a cloak. "I have."

"Then I have your consent, as commanding officer, to do this?"

"You do."

Phlox pulled back the curtain once again, and approached the bio-bed with a hypospray. Archer eyed it, his breaths short and sharp. "No," he said, and the word was clear as glass. "'Wake . . . long . . . as. . . poss . . .'ble."

The doctor sighed. "At this point, it is appropriate for me to override your wishes. T'Pol has assumed command, and I have her permission."

Archer turned his gaze to the Vulcan and sent her his thoughts with all of his strength. She may not have been telepathic, exactly, but she got the message.

_You do this, and I will never forgive you._

"Doctor," she began, and Phlox sighed again, heavier this time. The hypo disappeared into his pocket.

Forty-nine hours, and it was clear that Archer was losing the battle. "Commander," T'Pol said, as Trip made his way back from the head, where he had sobbed loudly under the sound of running water. "You must let him go." The engineer didn't answer, pretended not to hear her. She tried again, the task of being the voice of reason falling once again on her shoulders. "His kidneys have failed. He is in pain. But he will hold on and fight as long as you ask him to. You know how strong his will is. But he is suffering. You must let him go."

Trip rubbed his hands over his face. "I can't. I've already lost a sister and a daughter. You can't ask me to give up my best friend, too."

T'Pol was silent for a moment, then said quietly. "I understand." She turned and walked behind the curtain, taking up her vigil once more. A few moments later, Trip joined her, sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. Archer looked up briefly, eyes glittering, then bent his whole concentration back to the toil of breathing. Trip took the captain's hand in his, thumb to thumb, like arm wrestlers do.

"Jon," he said, voice steady as a rock, "you've walked where no human being has before. You've seen things no one else ever has. You've saved your ship a hundred times, her crew. Hell, you've saved the whole damn planet. It's time for you to rest. You've earned it. You deserve it."

Archer squeezed the hand holding his, fighting to push the words out. "Honor . . . to . . . serve. Priv. . . ledge . . . to . . . command."

_There's so much I want to tell you, Trip. Read my personal logs someday. _

The captain turned his head slightly, toward his First Officer, and his first Vulcan friend. She leaned forward and curled her fingers around his, lying flat on the bed. Her eyes were calm.

_Damn, I used to know how to say this in Vulcan. Masu-something._

"T'Pol. . .ship . . . is yours."

"Understood, Captain." She gave his hand a tiny squeeze. "Safe journey. Jonathan."

Archer closed his eyes, and the moisture trapped there escaped to hide in the hair at his temples, gray now. In his mind's eye, he could see the stars moving at warp, a sight that not one human in ten thousand would witness. He felt the hum of the engine, barely at impulse, and let the vibration lull him to sleep.

Somewhere in the dark of Gamma shift, the captain's breath stuttered even more out of rhythm, a rattling gasp, sigh, pause that hurt almost as much to hear as to perform. Trip's head rested on their joined hands; not for anything would he let go now. T'Pol still held his other hand, which twitched occasionally. But it was her Vulcan ears that heard the last, long sigh. She knew without looking, but couldn't keep her eyes from drifting to the monitor. All of the triangles now rested, unmoving, at the bottom of the screen.

"Commander. Trip." Tucker lifted his head. "Captain Archer is gone."

Involuntarily, Trip glanced at the captain's face, the monitor, back to his face. T'Pol noticed that all of the deep lines and chasms, both the ones etched by pain and those chiseled there in the Expanse, were gone, smoothed out, relaxed. She took a moment to reflect on how this man might have appeared had he chosen a different path, family rather than Starfleet, if he'd never carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

She eased her fingers from beneath his and stood. "I shall inform the crew."

"T'Pol," Trip's tone stopped her. He nailed her with a grief-filled gaze. "Use human words."

The junior members of the Bridge Crew were at their stations. As soon as the First Officer stepped onto the Bridge, Hoshi knew, and began to cry silently. So did Travis. Reed swallowed and studied his hands. T'Pol sat on the very edge of the chair designed for a man half a foot taller than herself, and opened the ship-wide intercom.

"Attention all hands. This is Commander T'Pol." _Use human words_. She sighed inaudibly. "It is with deep regret that I inform you that Captain Archer died at oh three thirty this morning. His last words, and I believe his last thoughts, were of this ship and her crew. I have assumed command, and Enterprise will be returning home, to Earth, immediately. T'Pol out."

Still in Sickbay, Trip commed Engineering. "This is Tucker. Dim the running lights, to fifty percent."

"Mr. Mayweather."

"Yes, Captain." T'Pol almost smiled. Trust Travis to offer a vote of confidence.

"Set a course for Earth."

"Aye. Course laid in."

T'Pol leaned back a fraction in the chair. "Warp Four, Ensign." She took a deep breath. "Take us in. Straight and steady."

The End 


End file.
